At Plattsburg by Allen French

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Title: At Plattsburg
Author: Allen French
Release Date: June 17, 2008 [eBook #25825]
Language: English
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BY THE SAME AUTHOR

THE HIDING-PLACES . . net $1.35

AT PLATTSBURG

BY

ALLEN FRENCH

NEW YORK

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

1917

Copyright, 1917, by

CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS

Published April, 1917

TO

SQUAD EIGHT

IT MAY SURPRISE YOU, BOYS, TO SEE THAT IN MY BOOK THE SQUAD ISN’T AS IT REALLY
WAS. SOME OF YOU ARE NOT THERE, AND THE REST ARE ALTERED. BUT WHILE, ON
ACCOUNT OF THE STORY THAT I NEEDED AND THE FACTS I WANTED TO DISPLAY, I
COULD NOT DRAW YOUR PORTRAITS, I HOPE I HAVE SUCCEEDED IN SHOWING THAT
THING IN PLATTSBURG WHICH MEANT MOST TO ME PERSONALLY, THE SPIRIT OF OUR
SQUAD

PREFACE

To describe military scenes is always to rouse the keenest scrutiny from military men. I write this foreword not to
deprecate criticism, but to remind the professional reader that, while the scenes I have described are all from
experience, the aim in writing them was not for technical exactness, often confusing to the lay reader, but rather for the
purpose of giving a general picture of the fun and work at a training camp.
Nowadays we are making history so fast that readers may have to be reminded that last summer occurred the
mobilization on the Mexican border of most of the regular army and many regiments of the National Guard, a fact
which considerably affected conditions at Plattsburg.
The “Buzzard Song,” which my company used with such satisfaction on the hike, was written by a camp-mate, John
A. Straley, who has kindly allowed me to use it, with a few minor changes.

Allen French.

Concord, Massachusetts,
April 3, 1917.

AT PLATTSBURG

Richard Godwin to His Mother

On the train, nearing Plattsburg.

Friday morning, Sep. 8, 1916.

Dear Mother:—
Though you kissed me good-by with affection, you know there was amusement in the little smile with which you
watched me go. I, a modest citizen, accustomed to shrink from publicity, was exposed in broad day in a badly fitting
uniform, in color inconspicuous, to be sure, but in pattern evidently military and aggressive. What a guy I felt myself,
and how every smile or laugh upon the street seemed to mean Me! The way to the railroad station had never seemed
so long, nor so thronged with curious folk. I felt myself very silly.
Thus it was a relief when I met our good pastor, for I knew at the first glance of his eye that my errand and my uniform
meant to him, as they did to me, something important. So strong was this comforting sense that I even forgot what
importance he might attach to them.
But fixing me with his eye as I stopped and greeted him (being within easy hurrying distance of the station) he said in
pained surprise: “And so you are going to Plattsburg?”
Then I remembered that he was an irreconcilable pacifist. Needing no answer, he went on: “I am sorry to see that the
militarist spirit has seized you too.”
Now if anything vexes me, it is to be told that I am a militarist. “Not that, sir,” said I. “War is the last thing that I want.”
“Train a man to wield a weapon,” he rejoined, “and he will itch to use it.” I think we were both a little sententious
because of the approach of the train. “Your argument is, I suppose, that the country is in danger?”
“Exactly,” I replied.
He raised both hands. “Madness! No one will attack us.”
I refrained from telling him that with so much at stake I was unwilling to accept even treaty assurances on that point.
He went on. “The whole world is mad with desire to slay. But I would rather have my son killed than killing others.”
He is proud of his son, but he is prouder of his daughter. Said I, “If war comes, and we are unprepared for it, you
might have not only your son killed, but your daughter too.”
Horrified, he had not yet begun to express himself on the impossibility of invasion, when the train came. So we parted.
To tell the truth, I am not sorry that he feels so: it is very ideal. And I regret no longer having my own fine feeling of

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security. It is only a year or so ago that I was just such a pacifist as he.
If I in my new uniform was at home a curiosity, when I reached Boston I found myself merely one among many, for
the North Station was full of Plattsburgers. There is great comfort in being like other folk. A thick crowd it was at our
special train, raw recruits with their admiring women-folk or fun-poking friends. The departure was not like the leaving
of soldiers for the front, such as we saw in July when the boys went to Texas. We should come back not with
wounds, but with a healthy tan and much useful experience. So every one was jolly, except for a young couple that
were walking up and down in silent communion, and sometimes furtively touching hands—a young married pair, I
thought, before their first separation.
We were off without much delay, a train-load wholly of men, and all greenhorns. For all of us had nice fresh crinkly
blouses, and olive-drab (properly o. d.) knees not yet worn white (as I have seen on returning Plattsburgers) while our
canvas leggings were still unshaped to our manly calves. Our hats were new and stiff, and their gaudy cords were
bright. And we were inquisitive of the life that was ahead of us, readily making acquaintance in order to compare our
scraps of information. Dismay ran here and there with the knowledge that the typhoid inoculation required three
weekly doses. Thank goodness, that is over with for me. We tried to be very soldierly in bearing, evidently an effort in
other cases than mine. One fellow had his own gun along; he wanted, he said, to make a good score on the range. So
I had my first chance to handle an army rifle.
You know that when I left, you had been worrying as to how I should stand the strain of the coming month’s work. I
will admit that I have been wondering about it myself. I have worked very hard for the last few years, practically
without vacation, in order to marry as suited Vera’s ideas. And then, two years after she had said Yes, and when my
earnings ought to satisfy any woman, began the complex strain of the breaking of the engagement—the heart burnings,
the self-searching, the difficult coming to an understanding. And now that she and I have parted friends, with both of
us quite satisfied, I have been realizing how much run down I am, so that it has seemed quite possible that Plattsburg
life might be too strenuous for me. But a good look at my companions has made it clear that I can stand up with the
average of them. A fair number of them, to be sure, are brown and seasoned by the summer. But quite as many are
pale and stooped from desk work, or pasty from good living. If I fall out, I shall have plenty of company.
I write this letter while the train is approaching Plattsburg. When I woke this morning we were at a standstill in some
railway yard, and beside us was standing another train, labelled like ours, doubtless carrying the New York men. It
drew out ahead of us, and I suppose its inmates are now debarked, and gawking about them as presently my
companions and I shall gawk. Tonight I shall write again. Affectionately

Dick.

David Ridgway Farnham, 3d, to His Mother

On the Train to Plattsburg.

Friday morning, Sept. 8th.

Dear Mama:—
It is unlucky that both of our cars were out of order just when I was starting for Plattsburg. For the train has been very
hot and stufy, and so crowded. I tried once more to get myself a statroom, but when the agent said I should have to
be with three other men, then I just gave up, and got the porter to make up my upper birth early, and climbed into it
though I wasn’t sleepy at all. But it was something to get by myself and be a little privat.
I spoke to a few of the fellows, but I couldn’t make much out of them. One had never been to college, and another
knew nothing of automobiles, and another began talking about the drill regulations, but you know I never even bought
the book. The whole train was one big smoking car, and some fellows near me were very noisy over a game of poker.
I suppose I shall mannage to get along with these fellows, because I know I must if I want what father promised me,
and if the fellows at the Casino aren’t to laugh at me. But so far as I can see, everyone on the train isn’t at all my kind.
Father doesn’t understand how I feel about fellows who are not in our set. I don’t look down on them, you know, for
I’m sure most of them are very nice fellows of their sort. But I never knew anyone of their kind before, and what am I
to talk to them about? Its all very well for father to say that I can get something worth while from every man I meet;
but he’s a business man, and so he’s used to them.
You mustn’t think I’m unhappy if I say I shall miss you and shall hate to be confined by the camp regulations. I’m not
going to back out for father and cousin Walt have put it up to me to see the thing through and though I’m kind of used
to disapointing father I don’t intend that Walt shall think I’m sandless.
But when the camp breaks up you must be sure to be here, with the Rolls-Royce, to take me home. I don’t think I
could stand another trip like this. Love from,

David.

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Private Richard Godwin to His Mother

Plattsburg Camp.
Friday evening, Sept. 8.

Dear Mother:—
I had scarcely finished my letter of this morning when the train began to slow down, and then drew up alongside a
wide and gently sloping field, while on the other side was the lake. With our luggage we poured out into the field,
evidently our training ground, since beyond it were tented streets, with some big open-sided buildings that doubtless
had some military use, since we saw rookies going in and out. In haste to get our share of what was to be had, we
consulted the printed slips handed to us in the train.
“On arriving at camp: First, Carry your hand baggage to the Y. M. C. A.”
Where was the Y. M. C. A.? There was no building standing near of even so much as two stories. There were tents
and there were shacks, but even when we came to a street busy with electrics, automobiles, motor trucks, and foot
passers, nothing of any size was to be seen. But as I followed along with the rest, noting that almost everybody we
met, from the riders in the autos to the drivers of the trucks, was military, I saw a skeleton structure, tar-paper-roofed,
and bearing the magic letters for which we were looking. There regulars—artillerymen with red-corded hats—
received our bags through the open frontage and stored them alphabetically.
“Second. Go to the mess-shacks for breakfast.”
We went. We breakfasted. The mess shacks were those other open-sided buildings on the drill-field which I had
already seen; their construction, being merely tarred roofs on posts and walled with mosquito netting, promised no
elegance of fare. Nor was the fare elegant: milk, coffee, cereal, hard boiled eggs, bread, butter, a bruised apple. The
milk was of two kinds, real and canned. Used in the coffee, or with sugar on the cereal, the canned milk was good
enough as poured from a hole punched in the container; but a wise man near me prophesied that I should not like to
drink it when diluted. Flat, he said. Tasted like chalk. Doubtless it was chemically correct, but (you see how scientific
he was) the metabolism of the body despises chemical synthesis, and for real nourishment the palate must be satisfied.
“Third. At once after breakfast go to the Adjutant’s Office and enroll.”
So we stood in line, and when on nearing the window of the office I heard the Adjutant say to a predecessor,
“Where’s your thirty dollars?” I got out my greenbacks and presently paid them in, twenty-five for our maintenance at
camp, five to be returned if during our stay we had not damaged any of Uncle Sam’s property. And since the adjutant
assigned me to a company, I began to feel that I was getting somewhere.
“Fourth. Exchange your baggage checks for camp claim checks.”
None of that for me. I had known enough to bring but a large suit-case, leaving behind everything that I could
persuade myself was unnecessary. There was a memorandum on the printed slip to the effect that trunks and other
large pieces of baggage would be stored at the post barracks, where owners could visit them on Sunday mornings. A
sad weekly ceremony for one who had to choose from an excess of luxuries!
“Fifth. Report to the officer commanding your Company.”
I did not find him. Though again I stood in line, this time with men with whom I was to associate, those to whom I
reported in the Orderly Tent at the head of H company street were but sergeants and volunteers like myself, though
men of more experience, as I could tell by their weathered uniforms and faded hat-cords. They filled out a card
concerning me, led me to the tent pole, and measuring my height with a crude but effective instrument, announced
“Tent Eight.”
“Sixth. Bring your hand baggage to your tent.”
So I brought it from the Y. M. C. A. Now the topography of the camp is thus. Just within the enclosure, and parallel
with the street outside, runs the officers’ street, their tents along one side of it, each with its little sign bearing the
occupant’s name. From the other side, toward the drill ground and the lake, lead away the company streets with
double rows of khaki tents facing each other. All were on a thin and barren soil, where between the tents some few
weeds straggled, while everywhere else men’s feet had killed all growth. No! For in front of one of the tents, under the
protection of its ropes, grew a half-dozen thrifty pansy plants, all in bright bloom. But elsewhere all was brown sand
that looked as if it might blow dust in clouds, but which also, I was glad to see, looked as if it might absorb all ordinary
rains. The street, about midway of its length, rose a little, then dropped, and straddling this ridge I found Tent 8, in the
best possible position should the weather turn wet. As I entered, stooping, I peered about the shadowed interior.
The dry floor was ploughed into holes and ridges by the feet of the last occupants. One man, bearded and grizzled,
was sitting on a cot in one corner, exploring the interior of a big blue canvas bag; a professor or doctor person, who
gave me one keen glance, briefly said “Good day,” and went on with his occupation. A second bed, already neatly set

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up and equipped, stood in another corner. Its owner, lithe and keen, a fellow of about twenty-five, was watching a
third, man-sized but boy-faced, who was struggling with a cot in its chrysalis stage, being apparently quite unable to
unfold it. I knew the lad at a glance, young David Ridgway Farnham 3d, whose cousin Walter was in my class, to
whom I was best man, as you remember, some five years ago. Now young David has been the laughing stock of the
family, spoiled with riches and an indulgent mamma. Walter told me that many tutors, on princely salaries, just
managed to get him through Harvard this year. And here he was at Plattsburg! However, he couldn’t know me, so I
disposed my things in a corner.
The lithe and keen person seemed lither and keener at second glance. He was of a splendid blond type, with flashing
blue eyes; everything about him was perfectly straight, his backbone, his nose, his close-cropped fair hair, the thin-
lipped mouth, the drop of his chin, and even the precipitous fall of his high cheek-bones. He had not noticed me at all,
so intent was he on the struggles of young Farnham. A very efficient person he seemed, and immediately proved it.
For Farnham, with that appealing helplessness which I remember in him as a charming child (you know that with his
brown eyes, curly hair, and rosy skin he’s as handsome as a girl) looked up at his watcher. He immediately said:
“Bend the leg the other way. Now the next one. Now spread the whole thing out. Now spring those two cross-pieces
into place.” But even then, though the cot had gained a recognizable shape, Farnham was still baffled. His hands were
soft, and so were his muscles. “This way,” said the other after a moment. And sitting on the cot, with his feet he forced
the cross-bar at one end into position, then swung about and put the other one into place, and the thing was done.
“Thanks,” said young David, politely but not warmly, in a way that showed how used he is to being waited on. “Have
a cigarette? I suppose we shall—er—room together. My name is Farnham.”
“Mine is Knudsen,” said the other. And then I appreciated the cause of his blondness.
“I’m from Harvard, class of ’sixteen,” said young David. Well-grown as he is, I couldn’t help thinking of him as young.
“I’m from Buffalo,” said Knudsen shortly. “I run a foundry there.” His blue eyes were unwavering and quite
expressionless as he looked Farnham over.
“Farnham? Farnham?” said the man with the short pointed beard. The others turned and looked at him. “I remember
now. You were in my section in English A, your Freshman year.”
“Oh,” said young David. “Professor Corder. Of course. How de do? I remember that you flunked me.”
“But you got through English D after two tries,” said Corder. “Such is college life.”
As none followed up the subject, I asked where they got their equipment. On their direction I went to the store-tent at
the head of the street, where on the strength of my signature an obliging regular intrusted to me various listed articles,
which I lugged to the tent.
This domicile is in the shape of a pyramid on a three foot wall, about sixteen feet on a side, the whole supported by a
solid post held by an iron tripod. The tent contains eight beds, the corporal’s always to the right of the entrance, the
others in a mystic order which I will not bother you with. As yet we did not know how we were to fall in, but I set up
my cot modestly among the rear rank, put under it my suit case, laid on the cot a mattress and pillow, properly cased
in light duck, and garnished the whole with three blue blankets which promise comfort in this September weather. And
then I dove into the blue bag.
First on the list, a sweater, o. d., like all the outfit, and very heavy.
A poncho. A rubber oblong with button-holes along three sides, and a slit, provided with a collar, less than halfway
down the middle.
A shelter-half. That was the strangely shaped piece of brown duck, in pattern something like a big old-fashioned kite,
with unsymmetrical button-holes and loops of rope.
Five tent-pins. Aluminum, ridged and bent.
A pack. A queerly outlined piece of canvas, provided with straps of webbing, wider or narrower, with buckles, rings,
and a big pocket. Its attachments numerous and incomprehensible.
A cartridge belt. Easily recognized, with its many pockets and numberless eyelets.
A first-aid kit. In a sealed tin box, buttoned in a pocket attached to the belt.
A canteen in a cloth case. Not flat and circular, but solid and bulky.
A bacon tin. Hm—a small box?
A condiment can. A double ended contraption, in one end of which had once been powdered chocolate.
A meat can. An oval sauce-pan, with a lid over which the hinged handle shuts down.
A knife, fork, and spoon.
I stuffed them away again, shed my blouse, as I saw the others were doing, and was therefore ready when, our squad
having filled up, the call came for us to fall in. Out into the street we tumbled, each of the dozen and a half tents
furnishing a squad, the squads falling in according to number. The sergeants formed us, got us into column of squads,
and marched us away down the public street, where military persons of all kinds went by, from lone privates to
officers driving automobiles, and where the only notice taken of us was by civilians in motor-parties, who came to see

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our zoo.
So here I was, for the first time in my life marching in the ranks, like any private not knowing where or why. For a
quarter, a half, three quarters of a mile we went at a quick pace on the macadam, till my soft tissues knew what was
meant by the “hammer, hammer, hammer on the hard highway.” And my misery had plenty of company. The man in
front of me, a bulky person, was wringing wet, and I saw another fellow with the sweat actually dripping off his chin. It
was a welcome relief to turn in at a big gate, pass between brick buildings, and come onto a great grass field across
which we marched directly toward a building with a long portico, on which the sight of rookies waiting promised us
rest. Very willingly we broke ranks at command. We learned from our predecessors that we were there for physical
examination.
When our turn came at last it was all very brisk and business-like, and soon I was passed as being sound in body and
feet. With most of us the ordeal was equally successful; but one poor chap sat melancholy in a blanket, waiting for a
second test. Then I straggled back to camp with Professor Corder, who confessed himself just under the age-limit of
forty-five. In spite of his successful examination he acknowledged a little anxiety as to whether he could stand the
work; has coddled himself, he acknowledges, for years; worries about the effect of woollen stockings: I imagine that
most men of his age here have some such anxiety.
When enough of us had dribbled back to camp we were again assembled, and were taken down to the drill-field by
the sergeant. And there for the first time in my life I saw a West Pointer at his work. He appeared from somewhere,
and the sergeant handed us over to him. A tall and lithe fellow he is, so graceful that not even his military carriage can
disguise it. He has an olive-dark skin, hair that curls at the temples, black eyes, nose straight and thin, and lips curving
like a woman’s. Give him the drooping mustache of older days, and what a romantic figure he would make! I knew
him at once for a Southerner, from his coloring, his physical beauty, and a slight trace of languor, real or affected.
But he knew his business. There is an uncertainty about the sergeants, as thinking “Am I doing this right?” But though
he looked at us out of eyes that were a little sleepy his tenor was clear as a silver bugle, and (if you can excuse the
mixture of similes) it snapped like a whip. No hesitation, nor even any thought as to what he should do next. We
straightened at the first command he flung at us, and in three minutes we were working to please him. The position of a
soldier! Was there the slightest spark of amusement in his eyes as he described it to us, as if to say “You mob of
clerks and manufacturers and professional men can’t really take this position”? I never “lifted and arched” my chest so
thoroughly. Did he intimate as he gave his other commands, “You men may play at doing this, but really it takes a
soldier to succeed”? If this was his meaning, certainly it put us on our mettle. What he gave us were the facings and the
steps and marchings, the simple movements by fours, guiding and dressing. When we blundered, there was his little
concealed smile to make us swear to do the thing right next time. As we marched he kept pace with us, and then all
his languor was gone. His step was springy, his arms swung, his eye roved up and down the line, and he snapped out
his “One, two, three, four!” each like a little pistol shot. Remarked Corder, beside me, “His time is absolutely perfect
—do you notice?” I had noticed. The sergeants tried to imitate his counting, but compared to him they were hoarse
and spiritless.
And he was only our lieutenant! The first sergeant called him such, in answering a question; and then I noticed the
single bar on his collar. What would the captain be like?
The bugle blew Recall, and it was very welcome. We were marched back to the company street and dismissed. My
rear rank man was one Pickle, a hardware clerk from a town in central Pennsylvania, who never in his life saw a big
league baseball game, and yet can tell you the names and records of all the chief players, especially of the Brooklyns,
for which club he is a rooter. He said of the lieutenant: “One of those wiry wonders, Tireless Thomas of the Training-
field. Doesn’t he never remember that we are flesh and blood? Me for my little cot!” Following his example, more
than half of the squad lay down till roused by the news that our rifles were being served out. So we flocked out in
haste to get what would give us lamed shoulders and tired arms. Being thus roused, I next went for a swim in the lake,
which was stony and cold and altogether invigorating.
The lieutenant had us out again in the afternoon, us and the guns. Consequently we were put through the manual of
arms until the anticipated lameness is now a reality, not only of the arms but of the whole body. I find it is not enough
to shift your rifle according to prescribed motions; it must be snappy, and in cadence. “Like a clock-work,” muttered
Pickle in despair. And it is a crime to drop a rifle. Its first commission roused our lieutenant from his languor. “Who
dropped that piece?” he thundered. Then he outpoured contempt. “There’ll be glue on little Willie’s fingers next time,
sure,” whispered Pickle.
Tired at the end of the day, I yet feel virtuous, having devoted to my country a pound of my flesh. I write by lantern
light in the tent, there having been no conference tonight on account of rain. Most of the squad are away, exploring the
city; but Corder is already abed and sleeping— “as insurance,” he said to me, explaining his middle-aged caution. I
shall follow him soon. Good-night from

Dick.

Postscript, written Saturday morning at 5.30, waiting for

breakfast.

We have in our squad one Randall, a person of recent Yale extraction—though (having good Yale friends) I don’t lay
it up against the college. Yesterday he established his bed in the corporal’s place, which so far the rest of us had
modestly avoided; and he fell foul of young David ten minutes after he had come among us. The two are evidently the

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youngest of us, with “college” sticking out all over them, and so might naturally draw together. But there is a still more
natural antagonism between them, of the thoroughbred for the mongrel. For young Farnham, in spite of his effeminacy,
has the instincts of his ancestors; and Randall, in spite of a magnificent physique, carries round with him something that
says to David, “Don’t trust him!” What makes personality? I declare I cannot put my finger on the thing that makes me
sure that Randall is yellow; but David has seen it, and has drawn back from it. Ninety-nine Yale men may slang
Harvard, and the Harvard man will take it in good part—and vice-versa; but Randall is the hundredth, and he said a
few things that made David tremble, not with anger but with disgust. “Have a cigarette?” asked Randall at the end.
“No, thanks,” answered David.—“Oh, he doesn’t smoke!” cried the other. “I do,” said David, and lit his own
cigarette. I’m sorry for it. Probably Randall can make David pay for this declaration of war. Yet I’m glad too. And
you should have seen Knudsen’s eye flash, and then soften as he looked at the young fellow.
War has been continuing these last few minutes. In the most ridiculous way David, after his shower bath, messed
round with a shaving brush and a piece of soap, trying to get a lather on his face. Randall saw it first, and with roars of
laughter called our attention to him. Corder, who instantly understood, quietly twinkled; but Knudsen wrinkled his
brow at the boy. “Have you never done that before?” he demanded. Said innocent David, “I forgot to get my man to
show me.” “Your man?” asked Knudsen. “His valet!” screamed Randall, overcome with the humor of the situation.
Knudsen, never having been acquainted with the Harvard Gold Coast, showed in his keenly intelligent face first
amazement, then disgust, then to my pleasure a kind of pity. In a moment he had both brush and soap in his hands,
and soon plentifully lathered David. The boy then took his razor, one of the old style, and immediately gashed himself.
With indulgent impatience Knudsen took the razor, sat the boy down, and muttering to himself that he’d never tried
this job before, skilfully shaved one half of David’s face, at each moment explaining the use of the weapon. “Why
didn’t you get a safety razor?” he demanded. The lad answered, “My cousin Walter uses this kind.” I remember that
he used to idolize Walt, as all the younger fellows did; if he still has some of the feeling there’s hope for him. Knudsen
made him shave the other half of his face himself—a botched job, but still David finished it. Randall remarked that
safety razors were best for girls, and when David finally emerged fresh, pink, and handsome in spite of his wounds,
Randall said, “Now you’re yourself again, Miss Lucy.”
The boy’s face is very sensitive; I saw that he was more hurt than angry, and he flushed deeply with the pain of it. It
was Knudsen who was angry, but he said nothing. Corder still watched quizzically. I know that the title will stick. It is
not ten minutes since the word was uttered, and we are already taking it up as David’s name. Randall uses it flagrantly,
the rest of us as a matter of course, all except Knudsen. “Come on, Lucy,” he said just now when the first call for
assembly sounded, and with his hand on David’s shoulder he went with him into the street, protectively, I think.
I shall close this and send it off. Again love from

Dick.

Private Richard Godwin to His Mother

Saturday, Sep. 9, 1916.

At the Y. M. C. A. Nearing 9 P. M.

Dear Mother:—
My tremendous postscript of this morning has somewhat led me out of the order of the day. I found myself awake at
reveille, and rolled willingly out of bed. At the spigot, the one and only article of convenience at the lower end of the
company street, I found a helpful comrade who gladly soused me from a bucket, and the day was begun. Back in the
tent I found the fellows slowly coming to consciousness, all except that accurate and careful elder, Corder, who was
dressing with great preciseness after a shower bath, and was calmly pleased at having no particular symptoms of old
age to report. He and I have a valuable distinction as the only men in the squad with foresight enough to have been
typhinated, worth while on this day when the others must submit to inoculation, if they want to run no risk on the hike.
Then David’s shaving, as described. It was cold when we finally turned out, and our humane lieutenant, placing himself
on a table at the head of the street, while we in open formation faced him, put us through setting-up exercises that
warmed us sufficiently to brave the chilly mess-shacks for our breakfast.
It was there that David found me out. He first got my given name, Richard. Then he made me acknowledge that I was
in Harvard, 1910. At the next pause he said, “My cousin Walter Farnham was in that class.” “Yes,” said I, and talked
to the man on my other side. That stumped David, that anyone should know his cousin Walt and not be eager to talk
about him. He did not approach the subject again till he and Knudsen and I and Corder were together in the tent.
Then he put it right up to me. “Weren’t you my cousin’s best man?” “I was,” said I, and Sick Call having just blown, I
went out, saying that I wanted to see who answered it. I know Knudsen and Corder looked at me hard; as for David,
he cried out, “Oh, I beg your pardon!” I have reasoned out that with his delicate social perceptions and the stock of
gossip that his mother supplies him with, he must have concluded that I was not in the mood to talk of weddings; but
the real fact is that I don’t intend to be enlisted as his nurse. As for the other side of it, I know I can depend on him

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not to tell the others about Vera and me.
When I came back, it being about time for drill, I found him explaining that while of course he’d not had his “man” at
college, he always used a barber there. The man, I’m sure, was with him at all other times. Then when we fell in I
heard a fellow from another squad call David Lucy. That was Randall’s doing. Presently it will be all up and down the
street. But Randall will be the only one to have any feeling about it. With the others now it is a matter of course, even
with David himself.
Our morning’s work began on the drill-field, with its open drainage trenches yawning for our feet and its scattered
mounds to stumble on. Gay work, this learning to walk in the right place, stand in the right way, toss your nine pound
rifle about as if it were a straw, and all with but a moment or two for thought between the first order and the second.
Even Pickle was silent this morning, intent like the rest of us on his job. We are all so green that, except for the
occasional old-timer, no one was giving his neighbor any advice.
Then on a sudden we were tested. “All who have had any previous experience” were required to step one pace to the
front. There were not many of them. Then “all who wish to be corporal,” or words to that effect. With about half the
company I took the forward pace. The lieutenant separated these goats from the humbler sheep, sent us under a
sergeant to another part of the field, and himself took charge of the remainder. The sergeant divided us up into twos
and set us by turns to drilling each other, evidently to test our knowledge and our ability to give commands.
Pickle was my victim, or I was his. We eyed each other doubtfully. “You begin,” said I. “No, you,” retorted he. “Gee,
what a gink I was to think I wanted to be corporal!” So I tackled the job; and of course, not being used to it, I made
long pauses between the commands, gave them wrong, could not assume a proper military accent. It’s not so easy. I
have heard, in the armory at Boston, a militia captain (captain, mind you!) give the command “Attention!” in three
different ways, continually experimenting. So how could I, for the first time in my life, rap out my orders like a veteran?
What we had to do was absurdly simple; but poor Pickle, when I balked, succeeded no better than I, so finally we fell
to consulting each other about it and became idle, like other groups that we saw. Then came our way another pair,
who being as experienced as we are green, speedily took us in charge and manhandled us almost as skilfully as the
lieutenant. I presently saw our West Pointer observing the drilling groups, and with him another with two bars on his
collar, the same erectness, and the same natural air of knowing his business. The two were like farmers judging cattle,
disposing of each one with swiftness, taking rapid notes, and then herding us together into our original ranks for a final
shaking down. The captain disappeared, but I hoped he was to be ours, for though I had had but sidewise glimpses of
him, there seemed a fine frank openness about him that I liked.
Sure enough, in the afternoon he appeared in this wise. The company was assembled and marched out onto the
highway, where we stood in double rank with our hats off, for a final sizing up. I heard a new voice, deep and
powerful, at the further end of the line; then along he came with the lieutenant, rapidly sizing us up, counting us off,
thrusting in a new man here and there, the new men to be our corporals. Randall disappeared into another squad, and
we have now as corporal one of those two who drilled Pickle and me this morning. There are these others of us:
Pickle, Corder, Knudsen, Lucy, Clay, a handsome young Southern medical student, and Reardon, a grocer’s clerk
from a little town in Connecticut. Our corporal is Bannister, manager of the routing department, whatever that may be,
of a tool-making establishment near Detroit. For a mixed crowd, of ages from grizzled Corder down to the very new
graduate, what could be better? The captain, having put us all in place, called us to attention without any fuss, and
stated that the new Number Four men were to be our squad leaders “until such time as other men proved themselves
to be better.—So go to it,” he added grimly. Then he marched us back to the street, where the tents were all freshly
numbered with chalk, and dismissed us to put our beds in the proper order.
Since military regulations cover the positions of beds in the tent, almost every man had to shift his place. A genius
discovered that this was a good time to begin with a level floor, the idea ran rapidly from squad to squad, and
presently the street was filled with piled cots and heaped baggage, while from each door came clouds of dust. Our
floor levelled, taking care to preserve the pitch of the ridge that runs through it, we moved in again, even before the
dust was settled. As I am Number One of our front rank, I bunk to the left of the door; peer around the opening, and
you will see my feet. Our rifles and bayonets we keep in a gun rack that leans against the tripod of the tent-pole; and
our surplus clothes we hang from a square frame that is suspended higher up. These two conveniences are squad
property, being bought at a dollar each from a Jewish-looking gentleman who offered them for sale, their evident
usefulness forcing the bargain. As they are most roughly built of light lumber, and have plainly served in each of the
previous camps this year, there is good profit to the speculators who supplied them in the first place, and who gather
them up when they are abandoned at the breaking up of each camp, only to sell them again. The tax on the squad is
not great, but I wonder why the camp management allows outsiders such princely takings.
Feeling energetic, I began digging out the old ditch that surrounds our tent, to make it better able to carry off water in
the next storm. Knudsen insisted on doing his share, then Corder took the spade from him for the next side. When
Pickle, who was standing ready, said “You don’t need to work,” Corder asked plaintively, “Do I seem as old as
that?” So he was allowed to do his stint. Lucy placidly watched us.
Then, it being yet early afternoon, the typhoid candidates, more than half the company, were gathered up and taken
away to be punctured. The small remainder of us were taken to the drill field and were delivered to the sergeants,
apparently that they might show their mettle in the presence of the officers. Now you know that every calling has its
tests of a man; in this soldier business the first lies in the ability to stand up and give your orders with such confidence
in yourself that your men shall feel confidence in you. There were two of the sergeants that I noticed for their

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difference in this respect. The one was sunburned, tall, and lean; his brows jutted, his eyes under them were steady
and sharp, his shoulders were square, and he had a very firm pair of bow-legs, which in some men is not displeasing.
He knew his job; his voice rolled like the deep notes of an organ; we knew what he meant for us to do, and we did it.
The other man was narrow and chicken-breasted, his long legs weak, his smile a smirk, his pronunciation so affected
that we disgraced him because we blundered from pure lack of comprehension. Why is it that men’s outsides so often
correspond to their innards? And how did the latter of these two get his job? I suppose he has done some service to
warrant his sergeant’s stripes.
Corder and I went to the lake to swim. He interests me by the careful study of his condition; is afraid that some sign of
old age will develop to send him away, and is almost boyishly pleased to find himself able to do all the work. “And I
hope,” said he, “that I shall learn to stand straighter. One feels a certain pride when in uniform, and I try to fill mine
out, if only to escape hearing some youngster say, ‘Gee, get onto that hollow-chested professor chap as a rookie!’
But it’s hard to keep straight.” The prime of life, he said to me again, isn’t so very prime.
When we came back the street was full of invalids. Army serum must work quick, for half the arms of the inoculees
were lame, and when I thoughtlessly touched Pickle on the shoulder he howled. “The guy that counted out my half
billion bugs,” said he, “must have thrown in an extra hundred thousand for good measure. And they’re all working
overtime.” At Retreat there was some difficulty in coaxing arms into blouses, and a number of men asked to be
excused from evening duties for the sole purpose of lying upon their couches and staring at the canvas.
The rest of us marched to our first conference, on the slope of the drill field below the furthest mess-shacks, where we
were massed in a semi-circle. It was an interesting sight, a thousand men in olive-drab slowly blending with their
background as the dusk grew, yet with the faces of most of them showing up in the coming moonlight. Behind the
speaker were the lake and the mountains, with the moon just beginning to glimmer on the little waves. It was the
General himself who addressed us, welcoming us, speaking briefly of the purpose of our coming, expressing
confidence that we would work as hard as our predecessors: a fine man-to-man address. I could not help thinking of
a German general that I once heard speak to Einjaehriger—stiff, short, and unapproachable. Wood was stimulating,
and made us readier for our duties.
The moon was brighter when we got back to the company street, and someone had lighted a fire at its head. Here a
hundred of us, including some of the invalids, packed together in a circle around our new captain, while he spoke to us
briefly. I had a good view of him. Shorter than the lieutenant, yet still a tall man, very strongly made, he spoke, like the
general, as man to man, and the least thing he appeared to expect was any difficulty with us. He told us that the work
was hard and tiresome; he would make it as easy as possible, but he knew we were there to work, and we could
depend on him (without a twinkle) to give us everything that was coming to us. His tent was right at the head of the
street; he wanted us to come to him at any time for any question; it was his business (and again no twinkle) to make
our minds as well as our bodies comfortable. Thus I get the impression that he is something of a humorist, yet also that
his chief trait is aggressiveness. I cannot tell you why, for all was spoken with a quiet voice, even with a certain
gentleness that disguises what I am sure is the basic character of the man. Knudsen felt it too, for as we walked away
from the conference he said: “The captain’s a scrapper.”
“He’s a Southerner,” said Clay with satisfaction. It had been plain in his accent.
This letter, begun Saturday night, I finish Sunday morning. Send me, please, a dozen clothes pins, to keep my washing
on the tent-ropes. Pickle hung up his wet towel today, and had to chase it into the next company street. As
everywhere is the same black sand, you can imagine its condition, likewise that of a moist cake of soap when you
accidentally drop it—excellent for scouring, but not good for other cleaning purposes until its new covering is
dissolved away. Send me also some paper napkins folded; the supply at the mess-shacks sometimes gives out.
A bit of character. Lucy was looking this morning rather helplessly at his silk pajamas, and wondering where he could
get them washed, when there entered the tent a handsome and stalwart regular. “Washing?” he inquired respectfully.
“Oh,” asked Lucy hopefully, “are you an agent for some laundress?” “No,” said the man, “I wash them myself. I
guarantee to return everything tomorrow, properly done.” The boy was not merely surprised, but almost shocked.
“You do the work?” he asked. Then his native kindness came to his aid, and he was about to bundle all his clothes into
the fellow’s hands, when Knudsen said, quietly but very pointedly, “When I’m here at camp I wash my own clothes.”
David flushed quite pink. “Then I think I’ll do the same.”
“It’s good for him,” said Knudsen to me afterward. “It’s good for him to be called Lucy. It’s good for him to learn to
shave himself with that razor. I was going to tell him to buy himself a safety razor, but thought I’d better not.”
I’m glad I left David to find his own nurse. Knudsen manages him with certainty. On the other hand the boy likes him
immensely, even though the taciturn Swede does but a small share of the talking when they are together. He is a
foundryman, had a hard struggle to establish his growing business, and has in consequence a fierce outlook on the
world, as one who at any time may have to fight for his own. David, by persistent but most tactful questioning, has
brought out two salient facts in his biography. Knudsen is first the son of an immigrant, talks Swedish in his home, has
none of the American background which to David is a man’s birthright. And second he is a college man, from Hobart.
Over these two facts the boy is sadly perplexed. Legally, Knudsen is as American as the rest of us—but can he be?
Socially he is also all right, since he is a college man—but after all can you call Hobart a college? Don’t blame David.
It’s not his fault if he’s narrow-minded.
I shall close and mail this letter now, and at the first convenient opportunity shall begin the next. I foresee that my

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letters to you will be practically a continuous performance. Love from

Dick.

From Private Samuel Pickle to His Brother

Plattsburg Training Camp.
Sunday, Sept. 10, 1916.

Say, Tony, what a mutt I was not to get myself jabbed for typhoid before I came here! It would have been worth the
money. Today my arm feels like a hornet’s nest, with roots up into my shoulder and down my ribs. And my head is
light and wavy—that’s fever. I saw one guy keel over stiff when the doctor stuck him, and the poor corp of our squad
says he’d swap jobs with his rear-rank man if he could only feel like a boy again.
They feed you here with food that’s like ourselves, coarse and plentiful. I’ll never again call sister’s doughnuts sinkers;
wish I could see any kind of a doughnut. The table china is delicate French—nit. The waiters are in livery. The man
with a long reach will grow fat while others starve. Take care not to spill anything; it may fall into your hat that hangs
under the table. Iced tea should be iced and should be tea; milk should be milk. When you see a thing that you want,
ask for it; the platter will get to you even if the food don’t. Elbows on the table are comfort but bad form, same as at
home. The men that stay longest at table take pains to tell you that they eat slow. Eat first whatever is handiest when
you sit down; why be idle while your soup is coming?
It’s considered impolite to drink at the company spigot, but there’s no rule against cleaning your teeth there. The best
way to rinse your stocking after soaping is to hold it over the nozzle like a bag, and squeeze it while the water runs
through. It takes so long to get hot water here that you’d better learn to shave with cold. I never before made my toilet
out on the sidewalk, but a fellow can get used to anything.
You may talk of being chambermaid to a cow, but it’s worse being groom to a gun. These rifles have been in use all
summer, and they’re all et up inside. They’re like fat men, they sweat. Then they rust. Put in some dope and swab the
barrel, then take twenty-five dinky little squares of cotton flannel and run them through, and the last will be just as dirty
as the first. Let it go at that, and put in some oil, and say Damn.
It takes three lacings below the knee to get yourself dressed, and three unlacings to get to bed, unless you want to be
a real soldier boy, and sleep in your clothes. And only two hooks in all these lacings—the rest eyelets, eyelets. The
cartridge belt has ten pockets; I found a clip of blanks in mine, and am keeping it to celebrate with. The proper way to
draw your bayonet is not to cut your ear off. They tell me it’s been done. The outfitter lied to me. He sold me a tight
blouse because we wore our sweaters over them, and here it’s against the rule and my sweater will never go under the
blouse and I’ll freeze to death. Never believe anybody that says he knows.
When the horn blows pay no attention. It’s the top sergeant’s whistle you’ve got to jump for. If you want to know
what to wear don’t ask him; the lieutenant will change the order and the captain will change it again. Ask the major,
unless the general happens by. Always salute unless you happen to be smoking; if you have a pipe in your mouth,
don’t see him. Fall River!

Sam.

Private Richard Godwin to His Mother

Sunday evening, Sep. 10th, 1916.

Dear Mother:—-
I had no sooner closed this morning’s addenda than I had to prepare for the bugaboo of tent inspection. A good
bugaboo, of course, as at home it always pays to have visitors, we redd up the house so carefully. Our job this
morning was not only to have the tent perfectly neat, but also to have our kits laid out on our beds according to
regulations. One blanket was spread over the cot, the others were folded at the head, and on them the sweater and
pillow. At the foot were folded the poncho and shelter half; then all the equipment was spread out. Under the head of
the bed was the blue barrack-bag and the suit-case; under the foot the shoes. Then we stood in line in front of the
tent, and watched while the lieutenant, coming from tent to tent, left each squad in a state of despair behind him. To
cheer us, someone at the sergeants’ tent started a victrola, but a snap from the lieutenant ended that div...